


Unpresented

by pm_lo



Series: Unpresented [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Self-Lubrication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 11:08:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1686200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pm_lo/pseuds/pm_lo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unpresented was who Castiel was. It let him do his job, let him see things, hear things that normal people couldn’t, so caught up in the magical world of scents. It allowed him to ignore distractions that preoccupied other agents. It made suspicious eyes glaze over him with only a momentary twinge of pity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unpresented

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [Linzee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/linzeestyle/pseuds/linzeestyle), who is awesome.

It only took a second. The flight attendant - Nina, according to her badge - looked up from her screen, smiled her perfect customer-service smile, inhaled, and - there. There it was: the pity.

“How can I help you today, sir?” She asked, just slightly slower than necessary, her smile just a shade warmer.

“Checking in,” Castiel said, sliding the identification and credit card he’d been provided across the counter. 

She nodded vigorously, eager to help. “Sure, sure.”

He analyzed her idly while her attention was on the screen. Beta, he’d guess; an alpha would be expected to hold a more impressive job (and one who didn’t would seem more tightly-wound, the disappointment and resentment riding more closely to the surface of the skin); there was no ring on her finger, and an unattached omega in a bustling place like an airport would be too much of a hassle.

Who needed scenting? The rest of the world was walking around with blinders on.

“Here you are, sir,” Nina said graciously, sliding his tickets over the counter.

He didn’t fly out of this gate as often as some others, but it was close enough to the convenience store that he was able to stop by and get his usual bottle of water and can of pringles. He arrived at his gate with an hour to spare, positioned his suiter carefully out of the way of the other travelers, and took the opportunity to check his phone.

He had a text from a blocked number with an attachment. His target was handsome, tall, with brown hair and either hazel or green eyes - the picture was ambiguous. There was a video too, but he’d watch that later. _At the gala seeking new business._ No restrictions on method, which was good. The ones where it had to be made to seem natural were tiring - Castiel would rather take his silencer into a stall with somebody and check out early.

“Daddy,” he heard in a whining, inefficient whisper off to his left. “What’s wrong with him?”

Castiel’s gaze shot to the child, 7 or 8, who was being swiftly shepherded away by his mortified father (omega, likely, as he seemed to be caring for the child alone). Castiel always found it odd that children noticed his deformity, since - ironically - they lacked the heightened sense of smell that came with puberty.

“It’s just weird,” Balthazar had explained once. “It’s like... you should be a child, but you’re not.”

Uriel had said he smelled like people with down syndrome looked. Right before Anna had punched him in the face.

Castiel smiled, ignoring the father’s heated whispers of _don’t say things like that_ and _just a little different_ and _because we don’t want to be mean_. He probably had no idea that Cas could hear him - normal people really didn’t care about anything aside from how they smelled. And Castiel didn’t have to bother with any of it. Perfect.

When he had eaten his pringles and drank most of his water he got up, taking his suiter with him, and visited the restroom. In the stall he made sure that his Walther had come through security okay, and that none of his shampoo bottles had exploded and ruined his clothes. He also watched the video, familiarizing himself with his target’s voice and the way he carried himself. He was imposing, muscular - to be expected of his profession. Still, Castiel wasn’t anticipating any problems. He deleted the file.

Back at the gate he checked his seat number and kept his ears perked for the announcement of his row. As he waited, he scanned the seats in front of him, practicing - as he had for decades, really - filling in the gaps that the people around him took for granted. A businessman anxious for his upcoming work trip. A grandmother excited to visit her grandchildren. A young woman impatient to get outside again so she could smoke.

On opposite ends of the terminal, two women were exchanging lingering glances. As he watched, they peeked at each other from under their eyelashes, smiling and giggling as something intangible passed between them. A few others had noticed too, giving the pair understanding grins or eye-rolls. One grumpy-looking man wrinkled his nose pointedly.

An alpha and omega, obviously. Scenting each other - one possibly in heat, or rut. Maybe they’d connect on the plane, or while waiting for their luggage afterward. Make plans to follow up on the potential that literally floated in the air.

Castiel could see what was going on. He didn’t have to understand.

*

The hotel was white, marble and stucco, and it seemed to soak up the hot California sun from its perch on the baked golden beach. Cas shifted uncomfortably as the cab pulled up, dreading having to change into his tux even though he knew it would be air conditioned inside.

The lobby was indeed cool, refreshing, and as understatedly elegant as the facade. Teen pop stars wouldn’t crash any parties here; old money would be free to indulge itself in peace. Castiel adjusted his collar as he walked to the front desk, still warm. He got a few odd glances from the other guests, par for the course.

The front desk clerk was better trained, however, and merely asked, “Can I help you, sir?”

He gave her his cover name - something bland and midwestern sounding - and shifted uneasily as she searched the computer, actually feeling hotter as the seconds dragged by despite the air he could feel circulating around the room. 

“Sir?” He heard. He realized the clerk had been calling his name, and refocused on her, appalled. What was wrong with him? Was he hungry? Had he forgotten his pre-flight pringles? “That was a King?” The clerk was asking.

“Uh, yes,” he said. He catalogued his symptoms - fever, dizziness, mental sluggishness. He was sure there was a medikit buried somewhere in his standard supplies - maybe he’d do a quick diagnostic when he got to his room, make sure -

He slumped against the counter, panting. “Sir?” The clerk asked, definite alarm in her voice now. “Is everything okay?” He shook his head, dragging in great gulps of air, and opened his mouth to tell her to call a doctor.

And suddenly he smelled the room.

He doubled over, dropping to his knees, head throbbing and stomach heaving at the absolutely disgusting wave of scents that had landed on his tongue. It was like being in a room with a jackhammer - like staring into a strobe light - there were a million odors all clamoring for his attention, layering onto each other like a noxious stew. He had smelled bad things before - he wasn’t anosmic, just Unpresented - but this was crippling. He felt bile rising to the back of his throat.

There was a hand on his arm and he dimly heard someone calling for a doctor. He pushed up and managed to get upright enough to stagger, leaning heavily on someone (the clerk?), to a small staff room down the hall.

He crumpled to the floor once the door was closed, faring no better in here than in the other room. His head spun and his eyes watered, and he tried to stop breathing, which only made it worse when his body overruled him and he gasped for air even harder. He wanted to cut his nose off.

There was a face hovering in front of his. His vision was blurry and he blinked, trying to clear it. His eyelids - his entire body felt like it was on fire. He made some kind of inquisitive, moaning whimper.

“Sir, I’ve called the staff doctor, are you okay -” she babbled.

He fumbled in his pocket, trying to find his phone. Calling Naomi in front of a civilian was breaking protocol, but he doubted she’d want to lose an asset over a potential breach that could be so easily corrected. 

The cool plastic was slippery in his grip, clattering to the floor. The clerk asked, “Do you need me to call someone?”

“Naomi,” he managed to say, “0918”. She frowned but immediately entered his password. Clever girl. Shame if he had to kill her.

“Do you know what’s happening to you?” she asked, scrolling through his contacts.

Castiel’s stomach lurched, above and beyond what the assault of smells was doing to him. “Think I’m...” he wheezed, “presenting...”

Her eyebrows shot up, but she said nothing, merely passing him the ringing phone.

“Hello?” Naomi barked as soon as it connected. “You’re early.” The _what’s wrong_ went without saying.

“I think I’ve presented,” Castiel said, swallowing thickly. “Need medical -”

“What have you presented as?” Naomi asked. “Quickly, it affects the response.”

He turned his glazed eyes to the clerk, who was looking more uncomfortable by the second. “Congratulations,” she said weakly. “You’re an alpha.”

He rolled his eyes. “We have to abort,” Naomi was saying. The clerk mouthed _I’ll be outside_ and left him alone.

“No,” Cas wheezed into the phone. “Send suppressants.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Not birth control, full suppressants.” He continued, taking the shallowest breath he could. “Make me Unpresented again.”

“Castiel,” Naomi said crisply, “Do you understand what’s happening to you? You’re never going to be Unpresented again.”

Castiel blinked, sliding another few inches down the wall. The room felt dark, blurred, all of his other senses shaved down and stubbed under his newly psychotic nose. He felt a stab of something close to despair.

“I’ll send the suppressants for immediate medical care,” Naomi was saying, “But you need to come in, now. We’ll send someone else for Winchester.”

“No,” Castiel croaked. “I can do this.”

“Castiel,” Naomi said, and for the first time he thought he might have heard pity in her voice. “You’re going to have to adjust to an entirely new life. And you realize what else this means - you’ve probably come into contact with your -”

“Shut up,” Cas barked. “That’s a superstition. And I’m not aborting the mission, this is just a... setback. I’ll take the suppressants, and I’ll be -”

“You don’t just have a designation now, you’re in rut,” Naomi snapped. Castiel winced. “That’s what presenting _is_. The suppressants will hold it back, but not if you get too close to your m-”

“I’ll be fine,” Castiel panted. “Send them to my room. You have the information?”

“Yes,” Naomi said. “But this conversation is not over. I’m not sending you into the field like this.”

Castiel smiled weakly to himself, trying to sit up. “I’m the most reliable agent you’ve got.”

“You were,” Naomi said, and hung up.

*

Castiel’s hotel room was both better and worse than the lobby - fewer scents demanding his attention, but those that were present were _entrenched_. He eventually sat in a corner by the sliding door window, cracked open to allow the salty sea air to flow past him, trying to let it bleach everything out.

 _Presented._ It was something he hadn’t thought about since he’d been... 16? 17? Of course he’d been eager to present when he was younger, when his brothers and sisters and the other kids at school all had already, laughing and wrinkling their noses at the poor unpresented babies, totally unaware what they smelled like, that they were wearing their pheromone hearts on their sleeves. A mild trauma of adolescence for most. But for Castiel it continued, and continued, and continued, until it was a Problem.

His caretakers had taken him to every hormone therapist in the country, unwilling to let one leaf besmirch the family tree. A variety of treatments were touted as effective - hormone shots, behavioral therapy, electroshock. None worked.

His adolescence would have been a complete horror show without Anna, there to wipe the blood off his lip and say, “Maybe we’re looking at this backwards.”

As an adult? Unpresented was who he was. It let him do his job, let him see things, hear things that normal people couldn’t, so caught up in the magical world of _scents_. It allowed him to ignore distractions that preoccupied other agents. It made suspicious eyes glaze over him with only a momentary twinge of pity. 

What was he now?

He took an experimental sniff, reeling as the toxic bouquet of the room overpowered him. As if losing being Unpresented wasn’t bad enough, he was now saddled with a pubescent sense of smell that wasn’t even _useful_ yet - he was _weeks_ away (at best) from being able to discern anything other than extremely vague understandings of certain smells as good or bad. And so far, especially near his room’s toilet, everything had been bad.

He had liked his old sense of smell. Gingerbread houses during the holidays. Hot coffee. Library books. Those had smelled nice.

There was also the matter of the heat creeping under his skin, growing harder to ignore by the second. His cock strained against his pants, unfamiliarly stiff - he'd had an erection before, orgasms too, but they'd always been something he had summoned on a curious or bored lark. Never something that had _happened_ to him.

When it became impossible to ignore any longer, he trudged into the bathroom and then immediately backed out, choking on the fumes. He eventually had to position himself on the bed, crouched with one of the throw pillows positioned strategically underneath his - god, his _swelling_ cock.

He touched it experimentally, feeling sick at the rush of pleasure. It didn’t feel like his own in his hand, knotted at the base and leaking already. And it didn’t feel like his when he pulled, the lightning rushing up his spine nothing like when he had fooled around before. But it calmed the clamoring in his nerves, and he striped the pillow with a minimum of noise and shuddering, hoping that would be enough.

It wasn’t. The knot got bigger as he went on, and somewhere around the fifth or sixth time he discovered that clenching it tightly made him come even harder.

He didn’t care. He just wanted to _rest_.

The orgasms became successively less satisfying as he went on, even with proper attention paid to his stupid knot. Images of a faceless, naked man started playing before his eyelids - an omega, he realized with stupefying embarrassment, bending over, begging for him to fill him up, begging to be knotted. _So_ cliché, so horrifying, like every disgusting porno Balthazar had ever made him watch as a prank or so-called science experiment.

Still, coming to the fantasy afforded him more relief than staring up at the hotel ceiling as he spilled on himself.

He leapt out of bed at the sound of rustling under his door, the crinkled white packet like mana from heaven. He ripped it open and barely had time to read the instructions before gulping down two of the massive pills. He sat, waiting, resolutely not looking at his erection.

Twenty minutes later the smells started to leach out of the room like colors, growing quieter and quieter until Castiel could finally slump back against his mattress in relief. His penis had flagged, resting soft and unimposing between his legs once again. He smiled down at it fondly, coated in sweat and breathing like he’d run a marathon. _Back to normal._

Castiel had turned off his phone after his last conversation with Naomi and didn’t turn it back on now. After the ordeal he'd just gone through, he was craving some nice simple work. He had no idea what Winchester had done to land on Naomi's hit list, and he didn't particularly care. Nothing like a tidily executed mission to make him feel like himself.

He showered, taking his time, rinsing all traces of the last few hours out of his pores, and donned his tux, making sure the Walther didn’t ruin the lines. Staring at the mirror, ignoring the wreck of the hotel room behind him, he almost looked like himself again.

It was time to work.

*

The gala was opulent, as was to be expected given the net worth of its guest of honor. Ballroom lights glittered, the women wore designer gowns that could feed families for a year, and those trying to conduct business whispered around the champagne flutes pressed to their lips. Castiel took a big, cleansing breath as he walked in, smelling nothing but cigarette smoke and completely generic sweat. Ecstatic.

He skirted close to the edges of the room, scanning for two heads, one tall and one taller. The file had been quite clear: no Winchester was found without the other (and if he was, it was a trap).

Qinghou wasn’t visible, but that was also to be expected - he’d be somewhere in the back, letting his deputies manage the party and field any incoming requests. If the Winchesters wanted to land his US contracts (word was public bounties weren’t paying their debts anymore, and if there was any client worth going private for, Qinghou was it), they’d be speaking to one of his people. Castiel spotted them all, but not his quarry.

When in doubt, Castiel tended to circle the fray, preferring neutral vantage points that would allow him the most options. In this case, he ended up near the restrooms, which was how he heard “Dean, are you sure -” and stiffened, realizing his target was right behind him.

It was understandable that he confused the heat pounding through his body with the adrenaline spike of finding his target. He turned, recognizing the Winchesters - Sam tall and concerned and a hand on his brother’s shoulder, Dean red and short of breath and eyes darting around the room, trying to conceal his panic.

And that’s when the smells came back, with a vengeance.

They were _good_ , though, this time - unbelievably good, intoxicating, mouth-watering. And it wasn’t a _they_ , it was an it - a _him_. A him Castiel backed into the wall by the bathroom, hands fisting in the lapels of his expensive suit jacket. A him that was rich with details the file hadn’t mentioned - just a hint of reddish-brown stubble, flecks of brown in the green eyes that raked Castiel’s face, lips that tasted like - oh god, like a good run and stepping into a hot shower and those sessions back in his hotel room and the smell intensified when Dean slid his tongue into Cas’s mouth, shifted a leg up and around his thigh. He was moaning, a deep vibration that pooled in the base of Castiel’s skull and made him grip Dean tighter, pulling until the space between them vanished. Castiel’s knot was back and itchy and horrible but his brain was blowing right past that now into some very specific ideas about what he could -

Cold air buffeted his front when something dragged him away from Dean. Dean, who was red-lipped and muscular and panting and fatal and absolutely reeking of sex. Castiel took an instinctive step back toward him and found himself stopped, again, by something - a hand on his shoulder?

There was yelling. “- what you think you’re - !” _Sam?_

“Sammy,” Dean said raggedly, and the _sound_ \- the tape had not done that low growl justice, Castiel tried to move forward again, struggling without a hint of technique against Sam’s grip on his shoulders. “It’s okay, let him go.”

“Let him -” Sam said behind him, indignant but trying to keep his voice down. “You _want_ this?”

“I think -” Dean heaved, dark eyes raking over Castiel. Cas just barely resisted the urge to puff out his chest and preen, and a very tiny voice that had been locked away in the deepest corner of his brain rolled its eyes aggressively. “I think he’s - I think it’s why I been keyed up all night, Sam, I -”

There was a pause, and the expert grip on his shoulders lessened, but not enough. “Oh. You - yeah?”

Dean nodded. His eyes shifted to Castiel. “You got a room here?”

Castiel made noises. Dean seemed to get the idea. “C’mon,” he said roughly, and extended a hand that Cas greedily took, and would have used to pull him in had Dean not forcefully yanked him toward the exit, out of the party. Yes. That was good too.

The tiny locked-away voice was angrier now - this was a bad idea, a very bad idea. Dean’s ass looked fantastic in his dress pants. Castiel wanted to bite it. _The mission, the target?_ The smell of _Dean_ washed away all the other horrible smells he’d experienced earlier. He was tugging them toward the elevator, purposefully not looking at Castiel in a way that made him glow with pride and heat and urgency. _For fuck’s sake. Pull it together!_

This was okay, though, this - this was an understandable detour. It would actually dovetail perfectly into the mission. He was compromised, that much was undeniable, and he clearly wouldn’t be able to shake it off, so he just had to - go through it, get it out of his system, and then in the morning, he could -

Well. In the morning he could make a rational decision, which he wouldn’t think about now because they were in the elevator and Dean was finally looking at him again and the smell was so _thick_ and Castiel snapped. Dean groaned as their tongues touched, Castiel running his fingers over Dean’s arms and chest, not liking the suit very much at all now that it was blurring the very important details of Dean’s muscles veins and skin. Dean’s hands on his hair and ass were _glorious_ , roaming and forcing the breath from Castiel’s lungs and he gasped for air, desperate for more of that smell on his tongue, and Dean muttered, “Calm down, it’s okay,” and kissed him again. 

The elevator lurched - arrived at the floor? - and Castiel swayed precariously, his head full of sugar and lights flashing in front of his eyes. Dean caught him and dragged him out into the hallway, chuckling slightly.

“You okay, man?” he asked, running a thumb over Castiel’s lower lip, which was completely unfair. “You’re looking a little derpier than I expected, even for -”

Castiel kissed him, which was odd because he had been planning to reply, but breaking off long enough to free his mouth seemed like a terrible idea. Eventually Dean started trailing hot kisses down his neck, taking big gulping breaths of his scent and grunting his approval, allowing Cas to slur, “I was -” christ, Dean’s _tongue_ \- “Unpresented...”

“Woah,” Dean said, pulling back a little. “And, uh, sorry for the derp thing.” He frowned. “Should we stop?”

Castiel got his hands between the wall and Dean’s ass and pulled their hips together by reply, the friction and the dampness he could feel when he curved his fingers in short-circuiting what was left of his brain. Dean seemed to feel the same, his kisses more like bites as they inched along the wall toward Castiel’s room like demented sideways slugs. It was only when an older woman irritatedly cleared her throat as she passed them in the hall that Castiel realized they had overshot it by three doors, and in the interest of getting Dean naked, pulled himself together long enough to fumble for his key in his pocket.

“So hang on,” Dean panted, as Castiel tried to insert the card at the exact right angle and speed. “Unpresented. Does that mean... you’re a virgin?”

“The mechanics are straightforward,” Cas growled. The _mechanics_ had actually disgusted him in the past - self-lubrication, bulbus glands, copulatory ties, ick. Now the thought - the _smell_ of Dean growing tender and _wet_ for him - 

The godforsaken lock finally beeped. He dragged Dean indoors.

Castiel still couldn’t smell anything but the siren song of _Dean_ , but Dean paused as he entered the still-devastated room, inhaling deeply and shooting a dangerous look at Cas.

“You had fun,” he rasped, running his palms over Castiel’s shoulders as Cas walked him into the wall.

“Sorry,” Castiel muttered, trying to push Dean’s jacket off.

“Don’t be,” Dean breathed. “Smells like you. Speaking of,” he said moments later, fingers undoing Castiel’s belt buckle, a visual that threatened to drain all of the blood from his brain, “you got a name?”

“Castiel,” he replied instantly. _Fuck_. Oh well.

Dean smiled at the answer and yanked Castiel’s belt through the loops, leaning in to drop a chaste kiss on his neck. “Cas,” he whispered experimentally. 

“Dean,” Cas groaned in reply, digging his nails into Dean’s neck to drag his mouth back to his. He was still for a moment under the kiss, but as Castiel pressed him into the wall, bringing their bodies into contact shoulders to knees, his smell sharpened in the air around them and his arms came back around Castiel.

Cas tumbled them to the bed while they were still mostly clothed, an errant shoe disrupting the softness of the bed until their frantic tugging and rolling had shucked most of the clothes. The swaddling of fabric conveniently masked the heavy sound of his Walther clunking to the ground, and when Dean’s own jacket slid off the bed a bit too quickly Castiel pretended not to notice. It wasn’t hard, not when there was so much skin to explore, not when Cas was shaking at the thought of how Dean would taste, the texture of his nipples against his teeth and the sounds he might get him to make -

His hand had started fumbling between Dean's legs, pawing ineffectually toward the heat and wetness he needed, when Dean flipped him onto his back in a practiced move. His smirk as he straddled Castiel looked exactly like his picture in the file. 

“Virgin, right?” he asked. “Clean?”

Castiel nodded dumbly. “Uh, birth control?”

“Pills,” Dean said, and sank down.

Castiel’s back arched off the bed and they both shuddered. This was - this was indescribable. This was like seeing a new color, this was symphonic.

This was worth losing being Unpresented. Castiel scowled as soon as the thought crossed his mind.

But then Dean was lifting up and pushing down again, and Cas grabbed his hips, mindless, and started thrusting. He couldn’t stop, not when Dean was so hot and slick and clinging, not with his scent gassing Castiel's higher reasoning through his nose, not with the sight of him stretched out above Castiel like a hedonistic offering just for him. Not when his body started to catch on Cas’s already-swelling knot, not when a flush chased up his gorgeous sculpted torso and circled his neck, not when he started chanting in that scrape of a voice, “Yeah, yeah, give it to me, give me that knot -”

With absolutely no warning or ability to stop himself, Castiel shuddered violently and came. Dean stuttered to a stop above him, surprise and a hint of amusement in his eyes. Cas licked his lips and tried to speak. “I - I -”

The sparkle in Dean’s eye bloomed into a full-on grin. “Virgin, huh?” he chuckled. “Yeah, no. Welcome to being an alpha.” He planted his knees more firmly, and ground in a deliberate circle on Castiel’s lap.

Cas gasped, feeling his body clench up and come again. The pages of a textbook flashed in front of his eyes - alphas and multiple orgasms, increased fertility, etc. - 

Castiel did not like the look in Dean’s eye. He rolled his hips in firm, calculated movements, drawing another orgasm out of Cas, and then -

He groaned in confused frustration. It felt like he was coming again, except... he wasn’t sure he was. And the sensation was shifting now, a hint painful, but edged with - with impatience. He felt as hard as he’d ever been, and the pleasure thundering through him was as intense as it had been during orgasm, except with the desperation he associated with the build-up.

“Dean - what,” he panted. His knot hadn’t gone down, so Dean was still only able to grind against him, but he seemed to pick up on the same change that Castiel had, and his grin widened, triumphant.

Dean was moving faster now, and Castiel’s body ached with the need to move in response, to chase the high, so he started thrusting up again, gritting his teeth against the slight sting. “Fuck yeah, there it is,” Dean gasped out.

Cas’s head was spinning. He actually felt numb, somewhere inside and separate from the white-hot pleasure of Dean's thrusts. Paper-thin anxieties slipped over the surface of his mind and scattered every time Dean clenched down over his knot, gluing them together and grinding down at a pace that was drawing completely embarrassing flattened moans out of Cas’s mouth, and maybe Castiel should actually remember this in the morning.

He grabbed Dean’s hips, holding tight this time, and Dean slowed down, eyes stuttering to his. 

“Wha-” he panted. “C’mon!”

Cas stared up at him and shifted his hips slightly, slowly. Dean’s eyes widened, then fluttered shut.

“C’mon Cas,” he said, in a voice that held none of the urgency he was feigning. “Faster.”

Castiel said nothing and held him steady, pushing in in paced, deliberate circles. 

Dean let his head fall back and grunted, drawing in desperate gulps as he let Castiel slow the pace. A wave of his scent washed over Cas again, and he felt the wet tingle of slick and his own come leaking down between his thighs. “Fuck,” Dean bit out, eyes rolling back in his head. “Fuck.” He didn’t seem aware that he was talking, the words falling out of his mouth at a slurred mumble. “So good, so good, never thought - never - _fuck_ , Cas -”

He fell forward again, propping himself up with his fists on Castiel’s chest. “Need it, Cas, c’mon.”

Castiel loosened his grip on Dean’s hips to trail a finger down the shell of Dean’s ear, slipping a little on the sweat there. He let his fingers burrow through Dean’s damp hair, and Dean turned his head to catch his thumb in his mouth, biting slightly. Cas blew out a harsh breath.

“You smell amazing,” he whispered. Dean shuddered. His fingers dug into Cas’s hips, trying to pull him upwards into his harsh shoves down. 

“You want it?” Castiel asked, no idea where the words (thoughts) were coming from. “Want my knot? Want me to fill you up again?” Dean whimpered, his eyes shut tight. Cas let his hand fall onto the back of Dean’s neck, drawing his body down fully onto Castiel’s, relishing the feel of Dean hot and hard and trapped between them. “Take it,” he breathed, keeping his pace steady but adding more strength to each thrust until Dean’s whole body was jerking with every motion.

Dean’s tongue lazily exploring Cas’s ear was an odd counterpoint to the harshness of his breathing, the way he swiveled his hips down onto Castiel’s thrusts and bit down on Castiel’s neck, mumbling through his teeth. Cas fumbled a hand in between them to grasp Dean’s dick, flick the head and rub as much as he could in the limited space, and Dean gasped something surprised and a bit indignant before coming with a groan. Cas’s eyes squeezed shut at the incredible pressure and felt himself come one more time.

Castiel’s whole body throbbed as he struggled for breath, staring up at the plaster ceiling, so unbelievably different from only a few hours ago. Dean was a giant sack of flour on top of him - not uncomfortable, a warm weight that was snuffling into Castiel’s neck, either asleep or doing an excellent impersonation.

“Dean,” Cas whispered.

“Five minutes,” came the muffled reply.

That sounded good.

*

It was pale dawn when Castiel blinked into full consciousness for the first time in hours.

He knew he’d stirred awake once or twice in the night, but those moments had a dreamlike quality to them, only accessible as brief flickers of memory - lazy conversations that made no sense; sticky-stiff patches on the mattress; his hands running over Dean’s soft stomach as Dean watched with hooded eyes.

Dean, who was mercifully fast asleep next to him on the ruin of a bed. His scent was still a lodestone of _want, need, mine,_ but it had shifted slightly over the hours - calmer now, sated. Addictive still, mouth-watering, but no longer rallying Castiel’s brain to insanity. 

Which was just the opening he needed to start contemplating his exit strategy.

He got out of bed as gingerly as he could and began picking his way through their discarded clothes to find his sidearm. The room was quiet, suffused with scents that were still jarring and foul to Castiel’s untrained nose, but overlaid with something warm and content. He blinked when he finally found the gun, pausing in flicking the safety off to rub some of the sand out of his eye, and getting a proper look at his hand for the first time - there were bite marks radiating out from the juncture of his thumb and forefinger. In fact, the more of his skin he surveyed, the more marks he found. He smiled slightly. Naomi was going to be furious.

He only registered the slightest creak of the floor behind him before a crash to his temple dropped him right back into the darkness.

*

When he came to again, he couldn't smell anything.

The room around him - brighter now, the sun well over the horizon - only _looked_ a wreck, bedding all over the place, chairs overturned. But it smelled like nothing more than a hint of salt and something musky.

Castiel fumbled into the bathroom, running cold water over a towel to hold to the side of his head. There wasn’t much blood, but the bump throbbed angrily. He squinted down at the faux-marble counter. There was a note there.

_Cas, or whatever your name is -_

_Last night was fun, but I’m not an idiot. Come at me again and I won’t leave you alive._

_\- DW_

Castiel crumpled the hotel stationary in his hand, the ache in his head growing.

Dean was out of the hotel. Judging by the time, he and Sam were probably out of the state by now, or possibly the country - either way, the only way the suppressants could be back in full effect was if Dean were far, far away. 

Without Dean’s unique chemistry to undermine them, the only thing Castiel could smell on the sheets was sweat.

**Author's Note:**

> Complete for now, but I could scratch out a sequel if there's enough interest.
> 
> ETA: Okay, sequel! Fair warning, though, it could be a while, I have some other projects I really _have_ to work on first.


End file.
